We are very pleased to publish these three poems by Donal Mahoney, who has, in the intervening time, threatened our Poetry Editor, as described in the comment stream.


                                                                                           for Kermit Gosnell, M.D.
Every year Dr. Gluck,
the famed gynecologist, 
invites his nurses to his ranch
for his July 4th barbecue. 
The nurses and their husbands
drive miles to watch the doctor 
twist the necks of 20 chickens 
before he dips the fowl, some 
still wriggling, in a big vat 
of boiling water to remove 
the feathers before he tears 
the legs and wings off 
and places the parts 
neatly on the grill.
Everyone agrees the meat 
is wonderful, as is the sauce. 
No knife is needed except 
to butter the fresh-baked rolls. 
The slaw and potato salad 
have no peer, the nurses say. 
They claim the same is true 
of his ice cream and pecan pie.
The perfection of this feast
is no mystery, really. 
Every July 4th Dr. Gluck
celebrates America and
demonstrates outdoors 
the skills he's honed 
indoors for 30 years. 
The nurses agree, however, 
the fetuses don't wriggle 
as much as the chickens do 
and it's nice the fetuses 
go in a bucket 
and not on a grill.

I wish he had never come out
from behind the stove, that spider 
I stepped on at 4 a.m. 
He was a big one 
bothering no one. 
He didn't see my foot 
that hour of the morning. 
Reminds me of Mrs. Grimm, 
the widow next door. 
She took her garbage out
at midnight Sunday. 
They found her cold
in the driveway at dawn, 
a bullet in her forehead. 
Her children swear 
she had no enemies. 
Survivors of the spider  
say the same 
about their early riser. 
Everyone knows that ours
is a quiet neighborhood.

"On the window sill
the sun's pure gold today. 
Usually it's white," 
says drooling Nell, 
in her hospital smock, 
her tea turning cold
as she braids 
ram horns of hair
high and tight
to the sides of her skull. 
"On gold days
like this, I warm
my hands for hours
on this sill. 
"Yesterday, the doctor said
someone should paint me, 
the fool. A still life, 
that's what he said."
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at booksonblog12.blogspot.com.



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